Aldric Thornwood's Arc

Chapter 1 of 11

Aldric Thornwood knelt at the crossroads and pressed his palm to the dirt. Three trails split into the tangled glades. His sister had four days of breath left, maybe five. The seer in the poisoned grove had told him where to go — Melody Lake, a full jar of its water, three nights at his sister's bed without leaving. She had also shown him her blackened fingertip and warned that the wrong water would do worse than nothing. His wolf circled once and sat, waiting for him to choose. He could not choose. He did not know these woods. He stood and walked the middle trail because it looked worn. An hour in, the path forked again. Then again. The trees leaned close and the moss looked the same in every direction. He turned back before he lost the light and made himself go into the nearest cottage smoke he could find. The cottage door was open. A red-haired woman in glasses sat at a low table, grinding pigment. Moonflowers dried on a string above her head. She looked up once, took him in, and went back to her mortar. "I need the way to Melody Lake," Aldric said. "My sister is dying. I have four days." "Middle trail kills you," she said. "Sinkholes. Left trail loops. Right trail is longer." "How much longer." "Six days on foot." She set the pestle down. "You don't have six days." He put his hand on the doorframe to keep himself standing. The wolf pressed against his knee. She watched him a moment. Then she stood, crossed to a shelf, and pulled down a folded green thing no bigger than a napkin. She shook it once and it unfolded into a leaf-shaped sail on a slim hull. A small caterpillar in a striped cap blinked awake at the wheel and puffed smoke from a tiny pipe. "Skiff goes by water," she said. "Creek behind the cottage runs to the lake. One night, not six days. He steers. Don't touch the wheel." "Why give me this." She pushed her glasses up. "You said dying." She turned back to her table. "Bring the skiff back when you can. Or don't." Aldric carried the skiff to the creek. The wolf leapt in first. The caterpillar tipped its cap and eased the sail into the current. The water took them fast, faster than any road, and the trees blurred past on both sides. He unstoppered the empty jar at his belt and held it against his chest. He knew the way now. He had the vessel to travel it. What he did not have was any idea how he would carry a full jar of Melody Lake water back through country where a red-haired woman had recognized his need in one glance — and where, the seer had warned him, the wrong water poisoned the hand that touched it.